Where We Belong
by sandra70
Summary: Canon divergence set between 5x21 and 5x22. After spending their first night together back in Storybrooke in their new house, Emma and Killian realize that they have to deal with the repercussions of what happened in the past few weeks. But they also realize that their future together is just beginning, and they damn well intend to have one.


It's like they have a hard time separating from each other, this last, most dangerous of all their adventures having brought all of them even closer together as a family – an unorthodox patchwork family of all colors and patterns, but a family nonetheless. Instinctively, they seem to stick together in times like these. The toll they have paid for their victory is terrible, of course, but as a family they will get over this too... if they are certain about one thing, then that no one has to suffer alone. Somehow, the empathy of the heroes is extended even to Zelena, and Emma secretly thinks that she can relate to her in a particular way: the former Wicked Witch has killed her True Love by thrusting an Olympian crystal into his chest, watching him crumble to dust, while Emma had to run hers through with Excalibur. Having to kill the one you love in order to protect someone else you love – that is a terrible choice no one should have to make.

Both Mills sisters seem to find at least some sort of comfort with each other, and nobody's surprised to see them stick together and eventually leave Granny's together – Zelena cradling her baby, and Regina clutching Henry's arm. When they exit the door of the diner, the boy throws a glance over his shoulder at Emma, a tiny smile on his mournful face, and she knows what she whispered into his ear earlier has made him breathe a little more easily, given him strength. They haven't made a big announcement yet, out of respect for Regina, but Henry deserves to know who is waiting back at the loft, ready to hug him tomorrow.

Soon after the three have left, Emma and her parents go back to the loft, and Emma is a mess again, half sobbing and half laughing, when she watches her mother pull Killian into a hug that looks like it might break his ribs. David's next, and his joy is written all over his face, and so is his relief that this man who has grown on him not only as his daughter's True Love, but also as his friend isn't to be grieved in the near future. Killian accepts those physical displays of affection from Emma's parents with an embarrassed smile and returns them a little clumsily but nevertheless warmly. Snow is making tea for them to sit down for a while and talk, and Killian has to recount the tale of how he teamed up with the shady King of Camelot to find the pages of the Underworld storybook that Liam had stolen for Hades. Not only Snow tears up when he gets to the part where he was finally ready to move on, and the ruler of the Olympus himself has sent him into his personal paradise, home to Emma – where he belongs and always will.

Her parents aren't assuming that Emma and Killian will want to spend their first night back together in Storybrooke in the former Dark Swan's mansion, cold and eerie as it is – since their return from the Underworld where they left Killian behind, Emma hasn't yet set foot into the house. Instead, the Charming family has cocooned together in the loft. But after a while she scrambles to her feet, exhaustion written all over her face, and pulls Killian up with her. He has dark circles under his eyes, too. Snow gets up and puts her hand on her daughter's forearm. "Why don't you guys stay here, just for tonight?" she suggests softly and looks to and fro between Emma and Killian. "And tomorrow we can take care of... well..." She waves her hand vaguely and suppresses a shudder when she thinks of that sterile, creepy house.

"Mom," Emma interrupts with a smile, "it's okay, really." She doesn't say more, and Snow doesn't press any further. She knows Emma and Killian still have difficult times ahead – guilt to be soothed, apologies to be whispered and wounds to be healed... and she knows they have to work through this alone mostly. All she can do is offer her silent support, to both of them, just as she did with Regina two mere hours ago. So, she just gently squeezes her daughter's arm and nods, brushing a comforting touch over Killian's shoulder which he answers with an embarrassed, tired smile. Being part of a family who cares about him is something he still has to get used to. But he can't deny it feels good.

"You need anything," she says firmly, making sure to include Killian, too, "we're here."

A few moments later, after heartfelt thank-yous and goodbyes, Snow closes the door of the loft behind them and turns to David with a sigh. "You think they'll be alright?"

He smiles reassuringly. "I'm sure they will." He shrugs. "True Love, Gods approved 'n'all..."

It's dark outside when Emma and Killian, both drop dead tired, physically and emotionally drained, arrive at Emma's house – _their_ house – the house he chose with Henry's help to be a home for them. Almost reluctantly, she leads the way climbing the steps, Killian following her closely. She hesitates for the fraction of a second, then draws a deep breath and opens the door. Over her shoulder, she throws an almost questioning look at him, and when he nods encouragingly she steps inside.

Stopping in the hallway, she illuminates the scenery with a flick of her wrist. The sharp contrast of the stern black and white interior she remembers is softened a bit by the lighting. Still, it feels awkward standing there with Killian by her side, the bad memories of hurtful words and dangerous secrets rolling over her like muddy waves. How much worse must it feel for him, she thinks, her heart sinking a little when the realization settles in that the repercussions of sacrificing herself to the unleashed darkness haven't come to an end with him finally returning from the Underworld. They will have to deal with what happened, and it will probably be one of the hardest things they ever had to do. A furtive sideways glance at his exhausted face, and she sees similar feelings mirrored there; watching the guilt flickering in his blue eyes is not easy to handle, and she hastily looks away again. She knows that on top of everything he's also piling Robin Hood's death, and even if common sense tells her that it is in no way her fault, she can't help but feel responsible for it at least in some way. And if she already feels that way, it's a safe bet that Killian _I'm-not-worth-saving_ Jones feels easily as guilty as she does.

Killian swallows when his gaze is drawn to the door leading to the house's basement; relief washes over him though when he realizes that he feels nothing strange, no unsettling pull to see what is behind that door, no whispering voices. No cursed blade calling for him, speaking to his rotten core – obviously, that lies behind him now. He breathes a little more easily, even though he's aware that there's more than that to deal with, for both of them, way more than the loss of a friend and ally, painful as it is. His heart grows heavy when he sees the guilt on Emma's tired face the instant before she turns away from him to take a few hesitant, irresolute steps in the direction of the living room. But then she stops herself and faces him again instead, her hand reaching out for him.

"Let's go upstairs," she says firmly, the little insecure tinge to her voice breaking his heart, as if she's a little afraid of his reaction. "You haven't seen..." Her voice drifts off as she's unsure how to continue.

Emma bites her lip; talking like she's about to give him a tour of the house just sounds so... _wrong_. But Killian lets her take his hand, his fingers squeezing hers gently, and tilts his head with a tiny, encouraging smile. "Show me," he replies softly.

Feeling a little relieved, she nods and heads for the stairs, not letting go of his hand. She barely remembers all the rooms that are upstairs – she didn't spend really much time here, especially not upstairs, and it never felt like home. There are two smaller bedrooms, a bathroom and the master bedroom with its own bathroom and the floor-to-ceiling windows. Emma pulls back the curtains, eager to show Killian the view on the ocean, and feels a little silly, because it's dark night already.

Nervously, she tugs at her ponytail; it's still damp from the drizzle outside. "I swear, the view is breathtaking," she tells him a little sheepishly.

He nods, and she can see a muscle in his jaw twitch when he looks outside, probably thinking back to why he picked that house. When he turns to her with a smile, it's a little melancholic. "I can see that even in the dark," he says, "the moonlight is bright enough to reveal the waves."

His eyes are resting lovingly on her face, and she shoves her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, rocking back and forth on her heels, still feeling a little insecure. Damn this house and its pristine interior; the furniture, material and colors – black and white, a lot of glass and metal – are very elegant, austere and a little Regina-like. In this house, they seem misplaced and cold, hostile even. From returning here in that horrible, horrible night Killian died by her hand, Emma knows that at least the dungeon in the basement is gone – disappeared with the darkness from her soul when Killian sacrificed himself. But the rest of the house is just like it was, every single piece of furniture and decoration screams _Dark One_.

She shrugs and waves her hand in an all-encompassing move. "The place needs redecorating for sure, I know."

As always finding the right words, Killian replies, "It needs to be filled with life. And it will." His gentle voice is balm to her ragged mind, and when she lifts her eyes to his face with a smile, he inclines his head and presses his lips to her forehead. "We should both get some rest," he adds and quirks his eyebrows with an unspoken question.

Emma reaches for his hand. "Yes, we should," she agrees firmly, her wide green eyes telling him everything he needs to know.

His mouth curves into a tiny smile. "You want me to stay?"

Her eyes widen for a moment, and he's shocked to see the rawness of her feelings. "What _fucking_ kind of question is that even?" she presses through clenched teeth, and then she blinks the madness of the momentary breakdown away; a breakdown she's been teetering along since the moment her fingers slipped out of his down there in the under-Underworld, his tear-stained face looking up at her the last thing she thought she'd ever see from him. Ever since then, madness has been scraping at the edges of her consciousness with its bony fingers. One word – _Swan?_ – questioningly uttered by the beloved voice that would haunt her in her dreams forever, and a boyish giggle have washed most of that away with the rain, smoothed out those edges again. But she's still raw, and he's a stupid, stupid _bastard_ if he thinks that she's letting him leave her side for one moment or taking her eyes off him for a second, and why would he even contemplate...

She stops her swirling thoughts that make her nauseous and draws a deep breath. "Where would have been the point in bringing you back from the Underworld if I didn't want you to stay?" she asks quietly. Reaching out with both of her hands she grasps his hand and hook in a determined move. "You chose this house as a home for us, didn't you? Now whether we keep it or not, we..." She swallows before she continues, "we may have to reconsider, but we surely don't have to reconsider that any home we'll build will be _together_ , do we?"

The way she includes him so naturally as she speaks of _them_ deciding their future _together_ warms Killian's heart and soothes his soul. And really, what else is there to say? Emma Swan came down to the Underworld for him, ready to give him half of her heart. Ready to _give up_ her heart for the sake of saving him from the all-consuming fire. He has literally _won her heart_ , and she wants him. She _chose_ him. The nervous flutter of her eyelids as she waits for his answer touches him deeply. There she is again, his insecure lost little girl. "No, love, we don't," he reassures softly, and when she closes her eyes for a moment, he lets go of her hand to touch his fingertips lightly to her cheek, brushing his thumb along the curve of her left eyebrow. Then he takes a step back and shrugs out of his pea coat, dropping it on a high-backed chair with pristine white padding. To her questioning frown he says, "I'll be with you in a minute."

Emma nods with a tired smile, and he disappears into the bathroom. When he emerges again a few minutes later, he's baffled to find the room completely changed, and in the first moment he feels like he's been caught in a dream or transported to some parallel universe – which, in all honesty, wouldn't really surprise him that much. But then he remembers that his woman has magic and that she wants to make this place their home; or at least, make it a place that maybe someday could feel like home. So, she got rid of the severe black and the sterile white, the shiny, cold materials and edgy contours. Where there was a silvery beige carpet before, he sees dark wood, the polished floor partly covered with fluffy rugs. The furniture is a mix of dark wood and blue upholstery, his jacket is piled upon a wicker chair now. The large, king-size bed has a heavy frame made of black wrought iron and is covered by a colorful quilt with naval patterns such as helms and anchors instead of a cool white satin comforter.

But what makes this bedroom homely to him is none of this; what really fills it with life is Emma – collapsed on the bed with her boots on and all her clothes except for her black coat (it has landed atop of his). Exhaustion has finally taken the better of her, and he feels a heavy pull at his heart when he thinks again to which lengths she went to get him back, how she was willing to sacrifice what it takes, to fight tooth and nail and defy anyone, even the Lord of the Underworld, to save their future. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth when he realizes that this future has just started, and yes, he damn well intends to have it. He _deserves_ it. They _both_ do, even if for one of their friends that kind of future seems no longer possible right now.

His gaze sweeps once more over the changes she's made in the bedroom, and he knows he's made up his mind about this house. He's picked it out, and even when she was dark she decided to keep it. Sure, bad things have happened in this house, but these memories, painful as they are, are and will always be part of their history – part of what makes them what they are now. A reminder of what they managed to come back from. Of how they were at their lowest, and still came out stronger and closer than ever before. Of course it's not for him alone to decide, but for him, this house is the place they will build their home in, and he has an inkling that's what Emma wants, too, judging by the care and thought she put into the details of her redecoration. Yes, their future is starting here and now.

He loosens a few more buttons of his shirt and gets rid of his boots. Carefully, he pulls off her boots and, after a second of hesitation, undoes the button and zipper of her jeans. The denim is tight, and he wants to make it as comfortable as possible for her without waking her up. Tentatively, he tugs at the garment, but she barely stirs – so deep is her exhausted slumber already. So, he peels her out of her jeans very carefully and, after a short glimpse at her bare legs he can't deny himself, he refrains from any further perusal of her body, because that would be bad form. He's still a gentleman, after all.

Killian removes his hook and its brace and puts them aside, setting them on the bedside table. In a closet he finds a cozy blanket and climbs onto the bed beside her, deliberately leaving on his own jeans. Sliding close to Emma, he spoons her from behind very carefully, not wanting to make it too intimate of a touch, for his own sake. They may be True Love (not that he hasn't known that for a long time), but the final step of the ultimate gift to each other they have yet to take, and he's not going to take advantage of her in _any_ way until they take that step together, like they do everything else. He rests his head on his left wrist, his nose tickled by her hair, and pulls the blanket over them, the weariness finally settling in his bones. Then he wraps his arm loosely around Emma's waist, and in that moment she stirs in her sleep and fumbles for his hand, pulling it to her heart.

"Killian," she sighs contentedly and shifts a little back, molding her body against his.

"Aye, love. I'm here," he murmurs into her hair and tries to ignore the stirring in his groin, and even though she presses her shapely backside into him, barely covered by tiny cotton knickers, he finds it's surprisingly easy. Because what's overlaying the physical pull is the stirring in his heart at the realization that this is their future now – never again being afraid of closeness, be it physical or emotional, falling asleep in each other's arms. _Loving_ each other.

With a smile on his face, he finally falls asleep.

When Emma wakes up the next morning, the sun is already sitting high on the sky, its rays seeping through the closed blue curtains bathing the room in some sort of ethereal light, the cool azure tinge a pleasant contrast to the unnerving reddish atmosphere of the Underworld. The rain and dullness from the day before seem to have dissolved, and Emma will gladly take this as a sign. In spite of the mourning and healing that still lies ahead of them – yesterday was the day for Regina's grief, but today is the day where her and Killian's future finally starts. That future she has fought for so hard – they deserve it. They both deserve to be happy, like everyone else does. Unfortunately, for Regina at the moment happiness seems far away, but that is something Emma is not to be held accountable for, and she will surely not let some misguided sense of guilt deny her her happiness. Not this time.

The first thing she notices is that the bed beside her is empty, and she frowns, her heart beating a tad faster, but then she forces herself to calm down, because honestly – she can't freak out every time he isn't within sight. He came back to her, was _sent_ to her by the most powerful of the freaking ancient Greek deities (what is her life even?) because by her side is _where he belongs_ , and he isn't going anywhere, she tells herself and draws a deep, calming breath.

The second thing that catches her attention is the way she fell asleep – not properly curled up under the blankets, but on top of the quilt that serves as a comforter, a fluffy blanket pulled over her. She's still wearing her sweater and, underneath it, her bra, but her jeans are gone – she spots them neatly folded on the wicker chair – and she's just clad in her grey cotton panties. Killian must have undressed her, and she sighs deeply when she thinks that she has imagined it differently, the first time he undresses her. Briefly, she wonders if he got undressed, too (unfortunately, she has no memory of this, and she blushes a little when she tries very hard to remember any of it), but she's willing to bet that probably he didn't... too much of a gentleman. Yes, they have all the time in the world for that – on the other hand, she feels like they have already _waited_ all the time in the world, and they have their own house now, a home, and it's time to really make it a home. But then she smiles when she thinks that he would probably say it is enough of a home as long as the two of them are together in it. They both did need the rest, and Emma remembers the peaceful feeling of warmth and safety that engulfed her in the barely moonlit darkness when she felt his arms enveloping her and tucking her head into the crook of his neck. Yes, that was home. Last night, she was home.

Reluctantly, she throws back the blanket Killian has pulled over them for the night to keep the warmth between them and scrambles to her feet. Half hoping she'll find him in the shower, she enters the bathroom, but he's not there. She can see that he's used it, though – the clothes he wore yesterday are neatly folded on top of the laundry basket. When she raises the shirt he slept in – the shirt he was _buried_ in – to her nose, nothing but the enticing smell of him is there. Nothing weird, nothing creepy about it, no hint of the ever-present whiff of decay of the Underworld. Quickly, she drops the shirt and gets showered and dressed as well, hurried steps leading her down the stairs. She refrains from throwing a glance into the kitchen; her instinct tells her he's not there. Again, her heart beats a little faster, because even if normality will settle in at some point it's not yet there. _She's_ not yet there. The day will come when she doesn't know where Killian is and will just shrug it off, because he's _gotta_ be somewhere... but today is not that day. And really, who could blame her? She lost him first to death, then to the darkness she herself had forced into him, then to death again. When she found him, she lost him to his own self-loathe and feeling of unworthiness, and when he finally found it in him to forgive himself, she had to leave him behind for ever, as it seemed, losing him for all eternity. And all of that in the course of very few weeks. Just when she was ready to say goodbye to him forever – when she finally knew how – a sheer miracle brought him back to her on a rainy day, on a tragic occasion. And that had been only yesterday.

Briefly, an air of guilt quietly flickers through her mind when she thinks that Regina has to wake up alone this morning – if she even slept at all – but Emma keeps it at bay and doesn't let it get through to her heart, her heart that's shielded by happiness and thankfulness and _love_. Yes, it is tragic that Regina probably will have to wake up alone for a _lot_ of mornings to come, and yes, it _is_ unfair that she lost her love and soulmate, but _no_ , it is _not_ unfair that Emma has gotten _her_ True Love back. _It is not._ And she refuses to even remotely feel that it is.

So – _no_ , she is not entirely nonchalant about the fact that he left the house – _their_ house – without any hint where he went, and of course he does not have his cell phone with him. But the good thing is that Emma has a quite clear idea of where he is. She jumps into her yellow bug and steers the good old small vessel to the majestic one that Killian captains. The ship is softly, almost dreamily swaying up and down on the waves, and Emma hesitates only for the tiniest second before reaching for the railing of the gangway. The last time she was here, she didn't use this way to go aboard – the last time she simply poofed herself into the very heart of the ship like an intruder, a secret agenda on her mind. A wave of guilt washes over her when she remembers how she tried to manipulate him by toying with his emotions and rehashing their first date – he saw right through her, because obviously even as the Dark One, she was an open book to Killian Jones, but she still managed to get from him what she wanted.

And it's weighing on her now, that she was so insincere with him, the only one who had always been honest with her, even if that honesty had been a brutal one sometimes. He still thought he could save her from the darkness that already resided in her, and all _she_ could think of was how to get the old cutlass from him. She meant well, yes – everything she did since they'd returned from Camelot was to protect him, save him, save them both – but that doesn't make her feel any better about it. Especially since it had been her fault that he needed saving in the first place. Hadn't she poured the darkness into him... well, she'd done it to save his life, but again: hadn't she taken on the darkness, putting everyone else before her own happiness again, they would never have been in the situation of having to face a megalomaniac fabled king flourishing a magical blade bound to wound lethally.

Emma sighs when she gets an inkling of how the advice she gave Killian – _forgive yourself_ – is easier given than accepted. Dwelling in the past is never fruitful, she knows that, because she can't change what happened – what she _has done_ – anyway. Looking forward is the key to the future she wants for them, looking forward and taking step by step towards it. Trying not to repeat the mistakes of the past. She's about to rectify one of them for starters.

 _Why can you only admit how you feel when one of us is facing certain death?_ he asked her in an almost casual tone, not a hint of reproach in his voice. And he was right – not once since he's taken the darkness out of her with his sacrifice has she told him that she loves him. Not once has she said those three words to him without being threatened by death, imminent permanent separation or extreme emotional stress. Only the darkness made her bold enough to say it, but that doesn't really count. And Killian deserves to hear them from her, to hear her say them while being unburdened and free. That armor she sometimes forgets she doesn't need with him – it's time to crush it to the ground. Emma takes a deep breath and sets her foot on the gangplank.

Killian is deeply lost in thought, so deeply that he doesn't hear her steps on deck while he's below deck in the Captain's quarters, which is a clear sign of how absentminded he is – _no one_ has ever managed to sneak aboard the _Jolly Roger_ without the Captain noticing. He's thinking back to the last time he was here – when he'd challenged The Crocodile to a duel, himself being in full dark mode. He shudders at the memory, disgusted by the cruel glee he felt, not being one tad better than the man in front of him – a demon he'd called him once. Now _he_ was the abhorrent creature ready to wreak havoc just to get his revenge. But that's the past, he tells himself, straightening his shoulders. It's not easy putting that behind him, but he's working on it, every day. Despite everything that happens, everything that threatens to weigh him down, the sacrifices that it has cost to bring him back – the gratefulness for his second chance outweighs it all, and he knows he deserves it. But to make his peace with the past – with himself – he needed to confront it, and he needed to do that alone.

This is why he has come here to his ship all by himself, to come to terms with the bad memories before bringing Emma and her family here to create new ones, happy ones. He's been careful when he came here – careful to use sideway alleys and not be seen by the townsfolk. His happy return hasn't been made public yet, and only Emma's parents and also Henry know about it. Emma told him that she simply _had_ to reveal it to the lad to give him back some hope, and her words made him absurdly happy – the thought that the knowledge about his return is bound to give her son some happy thoughts among all the tragedy. But he knows that Henry's other mother has to deal with a terrible loss – and he can empathize with his former adversary, because he knows exactly what she's going through right now. To him, it is simply a question of good form to break the news to her gently – even if he knows that neither he nor Emma are responsible for Robin Hood's death, he would feel bad to shove the news of his happy return in Regina's face.

A soft voice startles him from his thoughts. "Killian?"

His head snaps up and turns to her; she's standing on the ladder, half on her way down. He is unable to form coherent words at first, and her smile is a little insecure when she asks, "Permission to come aboard?"

Finally, he returns the smile and crosses the small cabin with two long steps, extending his hand to her. "Of course." When she takes it, he gives her fingers a reassuring squeeze and adds, "You are always granted permission."

A hint of relief seems to fly across her face – it looks like she's been battling with her own demons, and he regrets immediately that he wasn't there when she woke up. "Emma, I..."

But she doesn't even seem to hear him; her gaze is fixed on a spot somewhere beside him, and he looks there, frowning in question. It's the old dining table where he's eaten many a lonely meal, and before he can ask further, she murmurs: "I'm sorry..."

He tilts his head in question. "Sorry for what, love?" he wants to know.

She swallows and fixes her gaze on him. "The last time I was here... I wasn't sincere. I was trying to..." Her voice drifts off, and she gesticulates a little vaguely and aimlessly, as if she could pluck the words from the air her mouth can't seem to find.

As usual, Killian is quicker. "You were trying to save me," he tells her firmly. "You didn't want to hurt me."

Emma licks her lips nervously and combs her fingers through her hair. "No, but I still managed to!" Her eyes flicker away from his face, and his heart aches when he sees the guilt on her face; he knows the feeling all too well.

"Aye, you did," he confirms, and she looks at him again. "You hurt me. But, Emma... someone once told me that the most important thing is, you need to forgive yourself." When he reminds her of her own words, she presses her lips together in a sorrowful smile, and he goes on: "And that's true. But if you want my forgiveness – by God, you have it." He reaches for her left hand. "I forgive you, like you forgave me."

She draws a deep breath. It isn't easy, and it will probably come back to haunt her from time to time, but it feels good to come clean about those things. "I never meant to hurt you," she professes, and in response, he squeezes her fingers tightly.

"I know that," he reassures softly. "We both said and did things that we wouldn't have said and done hadn't we been influenced by that wretched darkness – even if we still were responsible for it." She swallows and nods; these things, she has told them herself times and times again already, but it helps to hear them from him. "And you," he adds, "you were pushed by love, even if you made a few wrong choices. I know that now." Tears are forming in her eyes suddenly when she thinks of the wrong choices she made – and how she'd probably make them again, because _God help her_ , she will always do everything in her power to protect and save this man.

Killian reads her inner struggle in her eyes, and he can imagine what it's about, because yeah, he can easily tell her that she should have let him go – but he knows that if _he_ had been in her shoes, he, too, would have done everything, anything to save her life, wrong or not. And he made her feel so bad about it. He raises his hand to her face, cupping her cheek and catching a single falling tear with the pad of his thumb. "I need you to know one thing," he says with intensity, "back then, when I told you I _loved_ you – I didn't mean I didn't love you anymore or that I was going to abandon you." The pain of the memory alone is enough for Emma to feel a knife pierce her heart, even if she _knows_ now... knows that all he intended to do with his words was to push her to fight the darkness inside her. She swallows thickly and nods, fixing her eyes on his again when he continues to speak. "What I was trying to say," he explains softly, "was that I loved you already the way you were before... that you didn't need any of the improvement you thought the darkness could give you."

Emma smiles, understanding now what the darkness inside her prevented her from understanding back then. "I know," she whispers.

Killian scrutinizes her closely and sees how raw she is, how the mere memory of the words he spoke affects her... and he cringes with guilt when he tries to imagine the rejection she must have felt: knowing she was undertaking everything to spare him the bitter truth – that she had made him a Dark One – risking the love and loyalty of her family and friends to keep that secret, and then having to hear from him what must have sounded to her like he didn't love her anymore. And then he remembers the vile things he said to her when he _knew_ he was the Dark One – that he wanted to hurt her like she hurt him. And bloody hell, he was good when it came to hurting her... and it disturbs him terribly now when he recalls the sardonic glee he felt, the pain in her eyes almost physically arousing him while the words were dripping like venom from his lips. _You're so afraid of losing the people that you love that you push them away. And that's why you'll always be an orphan. You don't need some villain swooping in to destroy your happiness. You do that quite well all on your own._

Suddenly, his voice is rough with guilt, broken almost. "The vicious things I said to you when I came to your house..."

"Please don't," she cuts him off, shaking her head. "Yes, that hurt," she admits, and he cringes a little, but she firmly grips his shoulders and urges him to look her in the eyes. "But what hurt even more," she continues, "was that deep down I _knew_ you were right." His gaze wanders upwards, and he sways his head. He knows that she's trying to do the same for him as he did for her before, but he isn't ready yet to accept the absolution she offers. That his words might have been the truth, doesn't make him throwing them at her with a hurtful purpose any better. But Emma doesn't let him get lost in his guilt again and puts a hand to his scruffy cheek, leaning forward to bore her eyes into his. "I _was_ pushing away the people I loved, constantly," she admits. "I thought I could handle it all on my own, and instead I made everything worse. After all that we'd been through, I still couldn't open up to you completely, I always kept holding back."

Now that sounds far too self-accusatory for Killian's taste. "Emma..."

"No," she interrupts, holding up a hand, "it's true. I was too much of a coward to tell you that I love you, even after I'd watched you die in that alternate universe Gold made up. And when I finally did say it, I... I only could do it because I thought I'd never see you again, that I'd lose you either way." She frowns and shakes her head in regret, regrets about missed occasions and wasted time. But Emma Swan is done wasting time. She lifts her chin in determination, and automatically Killian cocks an eyebrow in curious anticipation of what she's about to say. "But now," she finally goes on, "now I don't need to see you dying anymore, or almost dying, or face separation to say that I love you and that I want a future with you. And I don't want to hide behind my armor anymore, not with you." She pauses, and Killian waits motionless, breathless. Emma hesitates for a second – it's like she's waiting for something – and he raises his eyebrows, tilting his head in an encouraging nod, the fine skin around his eyes crinkling in the tiniest of smiles, but that is all she needs. She draws a deep breath. "So, here's the thing," she states boldly, " _I love you_ , and I do want a future with you, and whatever you said or did while you were influenced by the darkness I forced upon you, doesn't change anything about it. And if you still want that future..."

She never gets to finish the sentence, because he closes the small distance between them with a determined step and grabs her firmly around the waist, pulling her into him and into a fiery kiss. The force of the impact when her soft body crashes into his hard one makes her stumble, but she's secure in his arms. They've shared many a kiss of all the different kinds, but this one – _this one_ is everything poured into one, and so much more and beyond. There's all the passion that's been simmering between them since their lips touched for the first time way back in the jungles of Neverland, the love they've been sharing for so long before even knowing it, the tenderness and adoration that lingered in every little touch, shared look and whispered word since they have become a _something_ after their time travel adventure. There's the promise of a future, of never letting go, of always forgiving, choosing each other and following each other to the end of the world, or time – and of _I will always find you._ But there's also a feral wildness, a promise to take and possess, to regale and to steal, to pillage and plunder everything that's so willingly offered. This is a dormant fire ignited that no magic in this world or any other could ever stop. It's a kiss for the ages.

When their mouths finally part – hair tousled, lips kiss-swollen, breath coming in heavy puffs – they just look at each other, their stares so intense that the electricity between them is almost visible. Neither of them is speaking, partly because all ability to form coherent phrases has flown out of the window for both of them, partly because the silent communication conveys so much more than any words could in this moment. Words are useless where hearts and souls seem to be directly connected to each other. Where the only connection left to be made, the last piece of the puzzle to fall into place, the missing link is the connection of their bodies. They both know they've reached a point of no return – all inhibitions fall away from them as they are finally free – free from fear, qualms and unlucky circumstances, finally finding a quiet moment with no monster, friend in need or family crisis distracting them from _them_. They don't know how long it will last – given the world they live in, probably not very long – but that's all the more motivation to seize the moment. This is _their_ moment, the perfect moment, and they know it.

This is the moment where Killian normally would say something like "are you sure?", softness and hesitation in his voice, but he doesn't. No ifs, no buts, no words needed. Not even the gentleman in him needs her affirmation – in fact, _especially_ the gentleman in him forbids him to question what he can see so clearly in her eyes. Emma reaches up with her hands to cup his cheeks, a reverent touch almost, brushing her thumbs across his cheeks lovingly, and responds to his unspoken question with an almost blinding smile that says, "I've been waiting my whole lifetime for this, of course I'm sure, you stupid old pirate!"

These two people know each other so profoundly, have reached a level of understanding and intimacy so deep and far greater than any sexual act could have provided. Their souls have become one already a long time ago, and in the most pure and honest way there could ever be. They love each other, and they've known it for a long time. Their love has been tested again and again, but no one and nothing, not darkness, not their own demons, not even death itself had been strong enough to rattle the strength of their feelings for each other. Their True Love is confirmed by a mythological test, and the most powerful deity to exist has approved of the fact that Killian Jones belongs with Emma Swan, and Emma Swan belongs with Killian Jones. And whatever it is they still might have to work through – she doesn't need her armor anymore for it, not with him, she's tired to wear it. It's nothing more than a pretty red leather jacket now.

Their stares lock again, and this time it's Emma who moves in for the kiss. They both know that nothing could stop this indomitable fire that's about to rage, come hell or high water – and they've been trapped by both. Killian's hand moves to its favorite place when they kiss, to the back of her head, and they kiss again – slowly, thoroughly, passionately, and it escalates quickly. For a second, she interrupts the kiss to slip out of her leather jacket a little clumsily; she lets it fall to the floor carelessly, forgotten the moment it lands on the old polished wood with a dry rustle. When she dives in to fuse her lips to his again, her fingers blindly reach up to unbutton his waistcoat while his hand and hook come to rest at her hips, his ringed thumb slipping under her shirt and stroking the skin right above the hem of her jeans. The touch of skin on skin is electrifying and sends goosebumps across her body, little forerunners of what's to come, of what she's about to feel.

When she's done with the vest, she continues with his shirt and pulls it out of his jeans impatiently, the friction of the fabric on his skin making him hiss against her lips. He shrugs shirt and waistcoat off, both garments dangling from his hook for a moment before he tosses them on the floor. Emma breaks the kiss and takes half a step back, her eyes dropping from his face, taking in the sight before her. It's the first time she sees him shirtless, and her gaze wanders over his body curiously, eager to explore. She drinks in the sight of him, and even though she's expected it, she's stunned by how gorgeous he actually is. His pecs are defined and his stomach a flat plane, his waist trim and his hips slender, and how those skinny black jeans she likes so much are even staying in place, she doesn't know; they seem to defy gravity by not falling from his hips. The fine dark body hair is sprinkled all over his chest and upper stomach up to his collarbones whereas his lower belly is mostly smooth, except for the narrowing trail of hair that leads down from his bellybutton and disappears into the waistband of his jeans.

But then, amidst her loving perusal, something distracting catches Emma's attention: the angry red line right below his sternum where Excalibur entered his body. When she sees it, she's almost paralyzed and can't pry her eyes away from it. She hasn't even thought of it anymore, but now the memory hits her like a ton of bricks, and for a moment she relives the horror of how easily the powerful ancient blade slid in. Not even her magic has been strong enough to erase the mark inflicted by it, inflicted by _her_. And suddenly she knows that it will remain there forever to remind her of what she's done, and her heart grows heavy once more.

Killian notices where her eyes rest and sees the pain, the guilt on her face. Again, like before, his heart aches for her and he wants nothing more than to lift that weight from her shoulders, but he knows this is something she has to face, to get familiar with. So, he doesn't move or say a word, just stands there, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, silently encouraging her. Then, slowly, she raises her right hand and lays her fingertips gently on the scar while he watches her closely, barely daring to breathe, her touch as light as a butterfly's wings. Her eyes glisten as tears start to pool, but before they can fall, she leans forward and presses her lips to his marked skin, her hand gliding to his back, pulling him into the touch, like she is trying to kiss away the pain of the past. He looks down at her inclined blonde head and feels a lump in his throat. When he puts his hand gently to the side of her head, she looks up at him. He smiles that encouraging smile of his, and she straightens her back again, leaning her cheek into his palm. Finally, one single tear falls, and he caresses it away with the pad of his thumb. She smiles back and turns her head a little to the left to brush a kiss on the heel of his hand, and when she focuses on him again and he's sure to have her attention, he slides his hand to the back of her head, fingers combing into her hair, and locks his eyes with hers.

"I love you too," he simply says, "now and forever."

The happiness that will inevitably start to bloom warmly in her chest whenever she's in his presence gets the better of the sadness that tugged at her heart a mere minute ago. He kisses her again, but after a while she breaks the kiss once more and takes his hand, putting it to her hip, to the hem of her shirt. Then she takes his hook, takes it firmly, and guides it to the opposite side, and he understands and curls his fingers, sliding them underneath the hem of her shirt while a slight twist of his left arm brings his hook under the garment. She smiles invitingly and slowly lifts her arms above her head, never taking her eyes off his. Killian swallows hard and pulls her shirt up with his hand and his hook, slowly exposing inch by inch of her fair skin.

When the shirt is off, his eyes are immediately drawn to that white, ridiculously tiny piece of clothing that must be this realm's version of a bodice – he has never seen anything like that, of course, and isn't familiar with women's undergarments of the 21st Century. It barely covers her breasts and is made of lace, obviously, because he can see bits of her creamy skin through the broken fabric, and _God help him_ , he can even see the darker peaks. The urge to reveal more is irrepressible, and he raises both arms to slide his fingers and the tip of his hook under the straps of the bodice and slowly pulls them over her shoulders.

Emma can feel the heat of his gaze on her skin, and she shivers slightly as goosebumps tingle at the base of her neck. A hint of impatience flows through her, and she wants to urge him not to take it so slow, but holds herself back. They've waited for so long, she can't deprive him of the wonder of undressing her for the first time. His eyes lock with hers, an unspoken question for permission, and she smiles and reaches behind her back to unhook the bra – there will be time enough for introducing him to the secrets of modern clothing, and she has an inkling me might actually like the tiny hooks and surely will master them soon. She leans a little forward and lets the piece of lingerie slip down her arms, baring herself. When she straightens her back again and looks at Killian, she sees him mesmerized by the sight, not moving, maybe not even breathing.

He stares at her open-mouthedly, watching in awe, drinking her in. Normally he's not shy in the presence of a half-naked woman; he has seen plenty of them baring themselves to him, and eagerly, and he never needed an extra invitation or encouragement to touch them. He was always confident enough to know what they needed, what they wanted, and this is not a problem here either: he knows what Emma wants. Yet, he's too captured, too enraptured by the sight before him to do as much as move a single finger. Like his Swan before, he's mesmerized by the glorious image unfolding before him. Countless times he's dreamed of divesting her slowly, taking away all physical barriers one by one, like he's torn down her walls. He has imagined the texture of her skin and its color, tried to conjure pictures of what she might wear underneath and of how her breasts would have the perfect size to fit into his hand. Yes, he has imagined all this. But nothing could have prepared him for the real deal.

Her voice wakes him from his haze. "Killian?" she inquires softly, shyly almost.

He slightly shakes his head once, then tilts it in curious, reverent scrutiny while he brushes his knuckles over the side of her left breast, fascinated by the immediate quickening of her breathing. She has a lot of freckles and birthmarks across her torso – he has imagined so, because there are a lot of them on her arms, too, he remembers from Neverland – and he loves them. They seem to turn her skin into a celestial map, and he plans to navigate it often. When he finds the freckle on the inside of her right breast, he's drawn forward like a magnet and bends forward to press his lips to it and nibble gently, and he knows this particular freckle will forever remind him of this moment – when they fully gave themselves to each other for the first time. He runs his nose across the valley of her breasts, inhaling the sweet flowery scent of her skin, reveling in the sensation of its silky texture, his eyes fluttering shut. He hears her deep ragged breath and feels her shiver, and when he opens his eyes again he sees that the touch of his lips, the gentle brush of his tongue across the tender skin has made her nipples harden. It takes almost superhuman strength to pry his eyes from her skin and look up at her, and her expression takes him by surprise and knocks the breath from his lungs. Her eyes are of a deep green, veiled with unmistakable desire, and her lids are heavy, _so_ heavy. These are bedroom eyes if he ever saw any, shooting him a come-hither look that makes his knees weak. She doesn't blink, a raw hunger in her gaze, and slowly pulls her lower lip between her teeth, chewing on it, sucking.

When he sees that move, he feels a mighty urge to sink his own teeth in her flesh and lunges forward, pouncing on her, crashing his lips to hers. Immediately, she throws her arms around his neck and responds in kind to his feral kiss, blindly stumbling backwards as he presses forward, just as blindly. They're only stopped when they hit an obstacle and break apart for a second to find their bearings. As soon as Emma realizes that she's backed up against the dining table she perches on its edge with a sultry smile and reaches for him again with both arms. Killian doesn't hesitate for a second before stepping between her parted legs and claiming her mouth again in a reprise of that hungry kiss. His hand holds her jaw, tilting her head, and he leans heavily into her like he's about to devour her, his weight pressing her down on her back. She eagerly surrenders and pulls him with her, returning the kiss with just as much fervor, giving as good as she receives.

Killian's head is spinning soon as his mouth slants across Emma's again and again, and suddenly he needs to make sure that this is not a dream. He slowly straightens himself again, his hand still cupping her jaw, and revels in her reluctance to let go of him. But eventually she does and just holds his gaze, eyes burning, while lying completely still otherwise. He brushes his thumb over her slightly parted lips, and for the fraction of a second the pink tip of her tongue darts out and touches it, like she wants to let him know that she isn't done kissing yet. The gesture is extremely sensual, and his pupils dilate at the sight of her flushed face, the color of her skin betraying her inner uproar. He needs to brand her and, letting go of her face, runs his hand down her throat, fingertips barely touching her skin. When he follows her sternum he resists the temptation to let his fingers wander astray to touch her breasts, and as her heavily heaving chest betrays how much she craves his touch he his temperature is rising. His hand reaches her firm stomach, and he spreads his fingers possessively, palm flattening against her feverish skin, as he slides lower. His eyes follow the trail of his hand, and suddenly his hand is not enough. He touches the curve of his hook to her right shoulder, the contact with the cool metal causing a tremble to run through her body.

Truth be told, of course it isn't the coolness of the steel against her hot skin to cause that shiver – it's the sultriness of the touch itself. Emma feels delightfully exposed, splayed out on the table like that after he practically kissed her down onto her back. The way he runs his hand down her front without touching her where she really aches for him feels like he is mapping her body, but also claiming his territory, and that thought is just overwhelming – overwhelmingly exciting. When he adds the hook, she holds in her breath. All the times she was fantasizing about their first time together – and she has done so even _before_ they were a couple – Killian's hook always had a part in that fantasy. What he plans to do to her with it, what he's able to... these are the things she's asked herself dozens, hundreds of times, and it makes her shiver in anticipation that she's about to find out. She looks at his face and is hypnotized by the way his eyes rake over her body, following the moves of his hook now. The gleaming steel runs down between her breasts, and she has the impression that it lingers for a moment on the birthmark he caressed with his mouth before. The touch makes her skin tingle with want, but his eyes – oh, his eyes. She has seen the flirt, the sensual promise, the sinful proposition in them before, but what she sees now would make her knees weak if she wasn't already prone. The blue of his irises is of a midnight color so dark now that it seems almost black, and the expression is that of a true predator ready to strike on his prey, full of hunger and a wanton greed that makes a heat wave course through her body, like hot liquid lead running through her veins and settling heavily between her legs. His hand has come to a halt at the waistband of her jeans, the warmth of his palm in contrast to the coolness of his rings, and his hook rests against her hipbone. She feels its tip slip underneath the waistband and swallows hard.

Killian hears the blood rush in his ears, seeing her on her back and shivering for him, the sight of his hand and his hook on her bare skin more arousing than in his wildest dreams. A fierce desire gets hold of him, a desire to claim her, to take possession of her. Suddenly, the need to shred her jeans is almost overwhelming, and he slides the sharp end of his hook under the waistband. But then his eyes find hers again. The desire in them mirrors his own, and the mixture of that need and unconditional love and trust almost brings him to his knees. He snaps out of his greedy haze and realizes that this is not how he wants it, how he wants to have her, even if she doesn't look like she'd object.

He reaches for her hand and pulls her slowly up into a sitting position again, smiling almost apologetically in answer to her questioning frown.

"Not like this," he murmurs hoarsely and kisses her knuckles. "Not the first time." After a second, she smiles in understanding, and he takes a step back so she can get off the table, but doesn't let go of her hand. When she's securely standing on her feet again, he tilts his head in a little bow. "May I lead you to my quarters?"

Emma's eyes shine brighter than any diamond. "You know I would follow you any–" Her affirmation ends in a squeal, because suddenly she feels herself lifted off her feet, literally. He's overwhelmed, so overwhelmed with eager anticipation, wonder, lust and simple happiness that he can't simply _lead_ her to his old bed in the adjacent room. So, he dives down and wraps his arms around her thighs, lifting her up in a swift move that elicits a gasp and then a silvery giggle from her. Immediately, she wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips, and a breathless laugh rumbles from deep in his throat as he carries her through the narrow door to the small bedroom. Her bare breasts are pressing against his chest, and that alone feels like heaven.

Their laughs mingle as he deposits her on the small, neatly made bed, making them both sound so young and carefree like teenagers. Emma grins cheekily up at him and lifts her right foot towards him in an inviting gesture and he grabs her boot and pulls it off firmly, throwing it behind him where it lands on the wooden floor with a loud thud. She presents him with her other foot, playfully drawing large circles in the air with it before he catches it and removes the second boot, too. But then Killian drops to his knees in front of the bed, between Emma's legs, and her laughter dies in her throat. She has to swallow it back when she sees the look he gives her from underneath his long lashes. The blue of his eyes is all buzzing electricity, it's like sparks are flying in her direction, she can feel them like hot needles on her skin. That look alone makes her nipples harden. The flawless, innocent white of his eyes makes sharp contrast with the sinful expression, and there's that predatory look again, that air of danger – but softened by the love and tenderness that lies underneath. She could easily drown in those eyes.

He puts his fingers to the button of her jeans and slowly runs his tongue over his full bottom lip before he asks, "May I?"

Emma blinks a few times and nods once, that's all the answer she can come up with; at the moment, she seems to have lost the ability to form coherent words. Killian pops the button and slowly pulls the zipper down; the sound of that zipper will be forever etched in her mind. His eyes are not leaving hers all the time, and at some point she forgets to breathe. When the zipper is down, she lifts her hips from the bed, so that he can tug her jeans down, and when he does he gets thrown off track a little. She can tell by the way his eyes suddenly flicker when his gaze falls on her panties. They're just simple white cotton with a lace border, but Killian looks at them like they are the most unbelievable thing he's ever seen, and once more a wave of tenderness washes over her. After all this time, after all the obstacles and walls she's put up, after he had to patiently pull away layer for layer for layer of her armor here she is on his bed, finally allowing him to pull away the last layer there is – literally and figuratively. The wonder and happiness are threatening to overwhelm him, and he's not afraid to show it.

Slowly, he gets to his feet again, and for a moment he just stands there, like he's not sure what to do next. Then, after a few seconds, he draws a deep breath that helps him to snap out of his haze and he grips his hook firmly, determined to remove it from his brace, but Emma is quicker. She puts her hand on his to stop him, and when he turns his eyes to hers again, eyebrows raised in confusion, she just slightly shakes her head once with a smile and whispers one word: "Don't."

For a moment he freezes, his gaze searching hers as if to make sure, but again, he doesn't have to ask her if she's sure – her reassuring smile says it all. He's damaged goods, a former villain who comes with the baggage of three hundred unhappy years of bad decisions, self-loathe and a hook for a hand... and she loves every edge and every scar of him and wants him just the way he is. That heart of hers that's been aching for love so much that she had to lock it up behind walls – he's won it, and now it's irretrievably his.

The fine skin around his blue eyes crinkles into a map of affection as he smiles and blinks a few times, tilting his head once in a nod. Emma lets go of his hand and reaches for the button fly of his jeans. She's not looking at his face but focusing on the task at hand, and so she doesn't see the adoring, unspeakably tender expression in his eyes as he watches her. She pops the buttons one by one, earnest concentration on her face, and she's torn between wanting to savor the moment and not wanting to delay it for one unnecessary second longer. When the buttons are all undone, her eyes dart up at his, and her perfect lips twitch into a smile that's cheeky and nervous at the same moment, and he loves her all the more for it. He returns the smile in just about the same way and briefly puts his hand to her cheek in a reassuring gesture.

She breathes out a little sigh and tugs at his pants, and it doesn't take much to bring them down; the time in the Underworld with its tortures and deprivations have made his already slender frame even leaner, and the jeans fall from his hips easily now. A ridiculous little pang of disappointment hits her when she sees he's wearing boxer briefs; somehow she has expected him to... well, she isn't sure, actually. She wouldn't be surprised, however, if he didn't wear anything underneath his pants; anyway, he does, which means the moment until she gets to see him in his full glory is prolonged for another bit. At least his boxer briefs that are made of a shiny black material – and why is she not surprised at _that?_ – don't leave anything to her imagination, not one _inch_ , and the respectable bulge makes Emma's mouth water, quite literally. Subconsciously, she licks her lips.

Killian huffs a pleased little laugh at that before he shimmies out of his jeans and peels them off his legs after kicking off his boots. He starts to climb on the small bed to lay with her, but Emma stops him with both hands at his hipbones. When he raises a questioning eyebrow at her, she hooks her fingers into the elastic of his boxer briefs and tells him in a husky voice, "You don't need these."

Then she starts to pull them down slowly, oh so slowly, and as if on cue they both stop breathing when his erection is finally released with a soft sound, bobbing up and down for a moment. Emma lets the boxers drop and she just can't help, she has to touch him. Again, she lays her fingertips on his hipbones, tentatively almost, and runs them down the V of his groin. Then she brings her right hand down and brushes her knuckles softly along his underside from the base to the tip and back again. His skin is hot, feverish almost, and smoother than any silk she's ever touched. She can't get enough of it and repeats the move a second and a third time; every time her knuckles glide along his length, the rigid flesh twitches in response. When she comes back to the base for the third time, she flicks her wrist and extends her caress to his balls, soft and tender and so vulnerable. He draws in a sharp breath.

Killian stands rooted to the spot as he watches her, not daring to move or even breathe at that point. His whole body is tense like a bow string ready to snap, and it's taking all his willpower to keep his lust under control. They will have all the time of the world for sensual caresses and a thorough exploration of each other – and God knows he plans to explore and map every single spot of her body – and he's really not sure how long he will be able to bear her touch without reciprocating. But then, how could he deny her what's obviously pleasing her? The expression of loving abandon on her face alone is enough to make his heart soar, and he tries to rein his his feral instincts by practising complicated sailor's knots in his mind. But then comes the moment when he _has_ to put a halt on it, somehow, although part of him wants her to continue. After she caresses his balls – and he can feel them _squirm_ underneath his skin at the touch – she reaches out to wrap her fingers around him, and he's afraid he's going to come on the spot if she does that.

So, he stops her with his fingertips to her wrist and pleads in a strained voice, "Emma, please..."

Her eyes dart up at him, and when he tilts his head once desperately, his clenching jaw betraying his torment, she understands immediately and shifts to the side on the bed, smiling. Her arms reach out for him, and she whispers, "Come here..."

And he does, willingly. When he stretches beside her on the bed, right into her welcoming embrace, his hand reaches for her face in a fluent move, guiding her into a kiss that makes her head spin. His fingers entangle in her hair, messing it up completely, and she wraps her arms around his torso, pulling him close into her. Killian slips one of his legs between hers, and her body arches into him, searching contact, because yes, she is aching for him now. He runs his hand down her neck, and it comes to rest on her breast where he squeezes the mound – lightly at first, then a little more firmly – and rolls her nipple between his fingers. Emma moans into his mouth, a sound vibrating deep in her throat, and he almost loses it. But what ruins him is when her hips start to move rhythmically against his muscular thigh on their own accord, and he can feel the damp heat emanating from her center as she's desperately looking for friction.

"Killian," she urges breathlessly against his lips, "please... let's not wait one moment longer..."

There's only so much self-control for him, and he simply can't – and doesn't want to – draw this out any longer. So, he releases her mouth, even if reluctantly, and moves to the end of the bed, giving himself only a second or two to admire the sight. There is his love's gorgeous, well-toned body, clad only in a tiny piece of sinful white knickers, writhing for him in desire and eager anticipation. _How do I even deserve this,_ shoots through his head, and then he hears another voice, powerful and divine and not from this world: _...where you belong._ He smiles like an idiot when he reaches for the last piece of clothing that still covers her.

Emma sighs with relief when she feels him slip his fingers and his hook under the elastic of her panties and pull them down slowly. She watches him watch her, and his eyes grow impossibly darker and hungrier the more he exposes her to him. His expression makes her squirm even more. When he has pulled the panties off of her completely and tossed them to the floor, he sits back on his heels and rakes his eyes over her naked body from head to toe, and a fresh wave of heat washes over her. It's like she can feel his eyes on her skin like a physical caress, and it makes her whole body thrum and tingle and raw _want_ settle heavily between her legs; she opens them for him eagerly, invitingly.

Killian crawls on his hands and knees between her legs and up her body, and he can't stop himself from diving down and nudging his nose against her exposed center. The womanly scent of her arousal almost sends him over the edge, and he growls deep in his chest while he covers her body entirely with his. She smiles up at him – this goddess and siren, his downfall and his savior, _his Emma_ – and wraps her arms around his torso again, pulling him close. He returns the smile and settles on his elbows while his hips are finding their place between her thighs. His eyes widen when the tip of him grazes her center and he comes in contact with her slickness, her intimate heat for the first time, her arousal coating him. Emma lifts her hips a little, the tiniest bit of impatience mirroring on her face, and finally he slides in – slowly, very slowly, savoring each inch of her that welcomes him home. He scrutinizes her closely as he does, memorizing every line of her face, every freckle and every bead of perspiration on her upper lip. Her eyes widen, the green so deep it reminds him of the darkest jungle of Neverland, and she exhales slowly as he stalls and wraps her long legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into his own private heaven.

"Where you belong," she breathes, surprised that she even manages to get out coherent words while she's adjusting to him, to the feeling of finally, _finally_ having him inside her.

"Where _we_ belong," he replies in a hoarse voice, and she knows the time of talking is done for now.

"Move now," she pants, and Killian doesn't need to be told twice. He pulls out agonizingly slowly, tentatively almost, before he slides back in just as slowly, a little deeper that before this time. Emma exhales again when he reaches the deepest point, and then he pulls back again, leaving her almost completely, but a little faster, more confident this time. The drag of his length against her inner walls, the slight burn as he stretches her, is the most sensual feeling she's ever experienced, and goosebumps are breaking out on her body so intensely that she has the impression her skin is curling. His third push comes even faster now and also harder, and this time her exhale becomes a gasp. As if that sound has set some signal for him, he lets go of any restraint now, and his pushes become thrusts, deep and strong and well-placed, and _God_ , it seems like she really picked a partner who knows what he's doing.

She arches her back in an attempt to get even closer, to make it even more intense, and her hips rise to meet his every move, but somehow it's not enough, somehow, she thinks, it can never be enough.

"Killian..." she moans, and he brushes his nose against her cheek.

"Aye, love," comes the breathless answer while he never stops rolling his hips against her.

"More," she manages, "please... need... more..."

His eyes darken, and inexplicably, he slows down to the point of almost stopping, an she whines already in protest. But then he leans his weight on his left elbow and reaches behind him with his hand, grabbing her left ankle and untangling it from her right one. Pulling her leg forward, he places her ankle on his shoulder. When he shifts his weight to his right elbow, she doesn't need an invitation and brings her other leg to his front, placing her right ankle on his left shoulder. Already the change of the angle, the way she's bent at the waist now, intensifies the pleasure, and she lets out a moan so wanton it's not from this world.

"Hold on tight, love," he almost growls, and she does – she wraps her fingers around his bicep, digging them into his flesh, surely leaving bruises, while he starts to snap his hips against hers in a frantic, relentless pace now. That way, he reaches even deeper, and every time he slams home he drags across that spot inside her that makes her see stars. Emma's lips are moving, mumbling words only she understands, and the blood is rushing in her ears, making her head spin along with the groans and feral noises dripping from Killian's lips. It doesn't take them long to reach the precipice, teetering on its edge for a few glorious moments, and those moments feel like time's standing still – suddenly there's a silence and serenity in Emma's head, like she's in the eye of a hurricane. She opens her eyes just in time to see Killian's roll back and his lids flutter shut as his whole body goes rigid and his hips start to stutter in an erratic way.

"Killian," she urges, "look at me..."

Immediately, his eyes fly open again, and she sees all the love that's so overwhelming, but in a good way. "My love, I–" he gasps, and she just smiles.

"Me too," she manages, and then they both shudder as their first shared climax washes over them, shaking them both to the core of body, heart and soul. He doesn't stop moving immediately but pushes into her a few more times, because those last thrusts into the aftershocks are always the best to ride out the waves of bliss.

When it's over and he stills, Emma's legs slide down his shoulders as he collapses atop of her, still keeping his weight mostly on his elbows though and careful not to crush her. It takes them a full minute before they're able to move again in a controlled way, all muscles sore and trembling. Killian lifts his head that had been resting against hers and slowly shakes his head, lips curving into an incredulous smile.

Emma returns the smile almost shyly and asks, "What?"

"You're mine," he replies as if he still can't believe it, and a thick strand of his too long hair falls over his forehead.

She huffs a little laugh and takes his face in both hands, wiping away the beads of sweat from his cheeks with her thumbs and caressing back his hair. With everyone else, she would have taken offense at such an old-fashioned, possessive remark. But Killian Jones has always put her and her decisions above everything and everyone else. "Some news," she comments. "I have been for a long time, you know."

His smile widens, and he leans down to kiss her before he rolls off of her, pulling her into a close embrace to his side. A delightful heaviness is settling into their bones. Emma snuggles into him, not caring about the sweat or the mess they've made between them. She'll clean it up later with a flick of her wrist; right now, she can't be bothered to move one inch from his side. It feels like home here in his arms, it feels right. Like it felt right last night when she stirred in her sleep on the bed in the Dark Swan's mansion, the house Killian chose to become a home for them, and felt his arms wrapped around her.

"Killian," she murmurs, lazily drawing patterns in his damp chest hair with her left index finger.

"Hmmm?" he purrs and raises his eyebrows in question, his eyelids momentarily too heavy to lift.

"Have you thought about the house?" she asks tentatively.

He opens his eyes and smiles, unnoticed by her. "You want to keep it." It's not a question.

She props herself up on one elbow and looks down at him with a serious, but hopeful expression. "We can find another one, if you..."

"Swan," he interrupts and catches her hand that's still caressing his chest. "I chose the house because I thought it was perfect for us. And you wanting to keep it shows that I was right." He brushes a kiss on the inside of her wrist, making her shiver. "It's where we belong."

Emma presses her lips together in a smile. "Good." Their eyes find each other, and she shifts a little closer, throwing one leg across his lap. "Although it's nice here on the boat, too," she purrs and leans down to kiss him.

"Ship," he growls and reaches for the back of her head to pull her close, arching his hips into her thigh.

Just before their lips touch, the ship rolls in a violent move, almost like Emma remembers it from their perilous journey to Neverland, and almost in the same moment an iridescent green shine falls through the porthole.

"What the hell was that?" Emma gasps and jumps up from the bed in the blink of an eye, Killian following almost as quick.

"It came from downtown, apparently," he presses through clenched teeth. "Bloody buggering hell, is it really too much to ask for..."

Emma's phone starts to buzz, and she finds it in the back pocket of her jeans on the floor. "A message from my dad. Something's wrong."

Killian runs his hand through his already messy hair, making stand hazardous spikes in all directions. "Of course," he snorts. "Well, then, let's go."

Emma stops her search for her underwear for a moment and wraps her arms around his naked waist. "Have I told you lately that I love you?" she asks as cheekily as possible in the light of an obviously new crisis and rises on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips.

"You have," Killian replies with a smooth grin, "and this time it even counts."

Five minutes later, they are sitting in Emma's bug, heading to face whatever that next crisis might be. Together. _Where they belong._

* * *

 _ **A/N:** this got a little out of hand... special thanks to my muse **Silvia** for the help and encouragement, as usual, and to **marajade4s** for the simple, but effective promt "post-UW first time coffee, please"  
_


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